She moves uneasily, and he figures she’s heard his threat.
For good measure, he adds, “Conspirators who waste cops’ time by staging fake crimes can go to jail.”
But she only says, “In this case, there won’t be a ransom demand.”
“Oh, yeah?” He isn’t looking at her, but he hears something in her voice—a confidence, an assurance—that catches his attention. “Why not?”
“Because he didn’t take her for money and he doesn’t plan to let her go. She’s his prize. He plans to keep her as long as he can.” She takes a breath. “And then he means to kill her.”
They drive the rest of the way in silence.
Chapter Six
A few weeks ago, Ruby read a book by an archaeologist who studied ancient cave paintings in the Lower Pecos Canyonlands, along the Rio Grande, two hundred miles to the south of Pecan Springs. The paintings suggest that the artesian springs that feed the Pecan River were the spiritual destination of pilgrimages by early indigenous peoples, and that the area around Pecan Springs and the nearby town of San Marcos may be the oldest continually inhabited site in North America.
Ruby thinks of this often as she runs along the river trail, wondering what those ancient pilgrims would make of the asphalt and concrete that now covers their land and the glass and stone and metal buildings erected on it. It often seems to her that every square foot of land has been remade in the service of humans.
But the river itself is still its own creature, wild and beautiful. It flows along the base of a cedar-covered ridge on the west side of town, fed by a cluster of bubbling springs that early settlers welcomed as an inexhaustible source of pure water. The trail runs along the east side of the river, an unkempt green thread of live oak woodland and underbrush, interspersed with mini-pockets of grassland. It’s the last refuge of wildness between the river, the town, and the interstate.
Connors turns left off Blanco onto Artesian Drive and follows it to the parking lot at the north end of the park, where a tube rental concession is crowded with river rats all summer long. But the kids are already back in school, so there are only a couple of dozen cars and pickups in the lot. One of them, parked in the far northwest corner, is a small, dark-blue SUV.
Ruby doesn’t have to be psychic to recognize the Chevy Trax. “There.” She points. “That’s hers.”
“Huh,” Connors grunts.
He doesn’t say How did you know? or What makes you so sure? But Ruby can hear him thinking it, and she knows he’s annoyed that she was right about the car, that they would find it in this parking lot. He pulls out a small notebook and checks the license plate against a handwritten note.
“Yep, this is it,” he says in a careless tone, barely disguising his impatience, and takes out his cellphone. “Could be she parked it here and went off with a friend,” he adds, and calls his dispatcher to cancel the BOLO.
Now that she is actually here, Ruby is feeling reluctant again. But it’s too late to back out now, and she approaches Allison’s Chevy cautiously. The windows of the SUV are only lightly tinted. On the floor of the front seat, she sees a handbag, half-covered with a sweatshirt. In the back is a blue nylon gear bag, a tennis racket and can of tennis balls, and a six-pack-size cooler—everyday equipment for an athletic woman. When she puts the flat of her hand on the hood and stands very still, all she can hear is a dull metallic silence. No whisper of fear, of violence, of pain. She guesses that when Allison locked her car and left it, she had no reason to believe that she wouldn’t be back after she finished her run.
Connors pockets his cell and looks at her irritably. “Getting some sort of psychic signal, are you? Like thought waves, maybe? A little ESP?”
“No,” she says, dropping her hand. “There’s nothing.”
It’s the truth. Whatever happened to Allison had nothing to do with the Chevy, and the car has nothing to tell her about what happened here. She isn’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved.
“Come on,” Connors says impatiently, with a jerk of his head toward the path. “Let’s get this over with. I’ve got things to do back at the station.”
Important things, he means. Investigations that matter, unlike this missing person investigation his boss has ordered him to open.
“Lots of bodies to detect, I suppose,” Ruby says. “Dead ones.” But at least they’re bodies, she thinks. He’s already said he doesn’t do no-bodies.
He gives her a withering look and they set off in silence. Heading north into the greenbelt along the river, they walk for ten or twelve minutes. The breeze has dropped and the air is heavy and motionless. Branches sag from the trunks of trees, burdened by the weight of dust and green leaves. To the left, through the thick green underbrush, Ruby sees the silver glint of the river and catches the bright streak of a cardinal, a brushstroke of brilliant crimson. The rich, musky scent of river mud fills the air, flavored with the sharp tang of wild mint. Their feet crunch on the gravel of the path, red-winged blackbirds launch musical sorties from patches of cattails along the river’s edge, and a car alarm blares in the parking lot. They walk without speaking.
Ruby is increasingly uncomfortable. She has started this thing, and she knows she has to finish it. But she is irritated by the way the detective is brushing this off and—more than that—apprehensive about what lies ahead. As they walk down the trail, her mouth begins to feel sandpaper dry. But her face and neck are wet with sweat and she is short of breath.
Connors is moving along at a brisk pace, and she wishes he would slow down. He is keeping his eyes on the path, which is covered with caliche, a rocky material that is as hard as a cement sidewalk when it’s dry. Ruby knows he won’t see any footprints, but he won’t want her to tell him this. She is watching the dense clumps of bushes to the right of the trail, where—in her dream—the man was standing. He was watching Allison run north, expecting her to run the full two miles to the point where the trail ends, then turn and head back south again, but slower, cooling down, maybe even walking. He was electrified by a greedy eagerness, knowing that she had to come back, past him. He could hardly wait to step out onto the trail and take her by surprise.
The greenbelt is fairly narrow here, and twenty yards off to the right, on the other side of the wedge of trees and thick underbrush, there is a residential street. Harper Lane. Ruby suddenly sees a quick mental flash of an image and knows, with dead-on certainty, that the man who was waiting for Allison had parked his vehicle—a nondescript gray panel van—on Harper Lane. When he had her, that’s where he intended to take her.
And then she stumbles and has to slow her pace. She is feeling an increasing pressure in her chest, and the air is so oppressive that she can scarcely catch her breath. The sky seems to have darkened perceptibly, and the birds have fallen silent. Her skin is stretched drum-tight, and static electricity seems to be lifting her hair from her scalp. She is tingling all over and there is a persistent staticky crackle in her ears. It’s as if she has just stepped into a highly charged energy field.
“Here,” she gasps. “Right here.” She puts out a hand and stops. “Please.”
The detective turns and backtracks. “Here what?”
She points. “There. That live oak.” Her hand is shaking and there’s a sharply metallic taste in her mouth. She’s light-headed, her ears are ringing, her vision is blurred. Her skin is tingling, as if she has just walked into an electrostatic field.
“He was standing behind that big tree, waiting for her to come back south along the trail.” Her tongue feels thick. She’s finding it hard to speak. “He knew she’d be walking, cooling down. He stepped out behind her and grabbed her and—”
His hot, sweaty hand is over her nose and mouth and she is paralyzed with terror. His powerful fingers are pressing against her neck, just under the point of her jaw. Their pressure is constant and hard, harder, harder. She can’t breathe. Her vision darkens, star-spangled, then goes to black. Her blood is ice, her bones are plastic, her muscles je
lly. She is falling, swamped by a roaring, swirling blackness that pulls her down and down . . .
Chapter Seven
“Hey, Ms. Wilcox,” Connors says. He grabs both her upper arms, steadying her when she seems about to fall. “What’s going on with you?” He shakes her. “Hey, you okay, Ruby? Ruby?”
Trembling violently, she opens her eyes and tries to focus on his face. “He caught her here,” she whispers. “Right here. He’s a big man, incredibly strong. He grabbed her from behind and pressed his fingers against her neck until she passed out. Then he picked her up and carried her—” Her face is paper-white and every freckle stands out. “He carried her through the woods to Harper Lane. That’s where he was parked.”
“His van?” Connors is pissed off. More of that psychic bullshit again. He doesn’t believe her. Nobody would believe a wild story like this. She’s making it up.
“An older model panel van. Gray, no windows in the back. Inside, it smells like . . . like sweaty workout clothes. Dirty socks.” Her voice falters, her eyelids flutter. “Please. I can’t . . .” She wavers, beginning to crumple.
He circles her waist with one arm. She sags against him, warm and limp, and once more he’s aware of her summery perfume and the disturbing jumble of images and emotions it triggers—emotions he doesn’t want to feel again. There is a large oak log at the edge of the trail, and he lowers her onto it. Her breathing is fast and shallow and she’s unresisting and pliant, as if she has no strength of her own. While he doesn’t have a lot of experience with half-fainting women, she is so pale that it seems to him that this has to be genuine, probably because she herself believes what she’s told him. This vision or whatever-it-was—she seems to have worked herself into quite a state.
He kneels beside her, watching her face, holding her hand. Her fingers are trembling, icy. “Ruby?” he says, concerned in spite of himself. “You okay?”
After a moment, she takes a deep breath, puts her free hand to her neck, and raises her head. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“No problem.” Feeling awkward, Connors drops her hand and stands up. “You stay here. I’m going over there for a minute or two.” He jerks his head in the direction she has pointed.
“Please,” she whispers. Her blue-green eyes are wide and she is clearly frightened. “Please don’t, Ethan. He might—”
“Might what?”
She shudders and covers her face. He can barely make out her next words. “I can still feel his hands. Around my throat.”
“Stay here,” he says again. He stands and puts a hand on her shoulder. “You’re okay, Ruby. Nobody’s here. Nobody’s going to bother you. I’m not going far.”
He leaves her and walks toward the tree, carefully watching where he puts his feet. He is looking for places where the grass is bent, where a weed has been broken off or something has been dropped. He’s not expecting to find anything, but a half-dozen paces off the trail, he stops and stands very still, looking down.
What the hell? What the bloody hell?
He’s jolted, disbelieving, then angry. He bends over, picks up a stick, and uses it to nudge a few leaves aside. He takes out his cellphone, crouches, and snaps a picture, then another. He pulls a plastic bag out of his jacket pocket and carefully bags the object. A moment later, he’s standing in front of her.
“Okay, Ms. Wilcox. I want the truth.” His tone is flat and accusing. He is trying not to let her see how angry he is—and bewildered. “Just what the hell is going on here? What kind of a scam are you trying to pull?”
“No scam,” she whispers. She rubs the side of her neck, wincing a little. “I’m not pulling anything. I—”
“Hey, wait.” Frowning, Connors bends over and yanks her fingers away. “Where did you get those bruises?”
“Bruises?” she says faintly. “What bruises?” She looks up at him, eyes wide and frightened, and he notices that the irises are dark-rimmed and electric blue. A redhead with blue eyes—a rare genetic combination, he remembers, that has something to do with recessive genes. If the hair color is real, which it probably isn’t.
There is a silence. “Crap,” he says finally. “Hold still.” He pushes her hair back, not at all gently, and snaps a couple of photos of her neck.
She puts her hand on his wrist and pulls his cell toward her, and they both stare at the image. It clearly shows finger marks, already the color of overripe plums, on the ivory skin of her neck. He knows those bruises weren’t there earlier, and from the angle, he’s sure she couldn’t have put them there herself—physically, that is. But he’s read about psychosomatic bruising. Is that what’s going on here?
She closes her eyes and pushes the phone away. “He has her,” she whispers. “He can do this to her—put his fingers on her neck and knock her out—anytime he feels like it. He likes doing it. He does it over and over.” She wraps her arms around herself and rocks back and forth, as if she is in pain. “And worse. Oh, my God.” Her voice is thin and brittle.
His jaw muscles knot. “You said this guy was driving a gray van. Sure about that, are you?”
She nods. “He parked in a spot where he could get her into it without anybody seeing him.” She stops rocking, drops her arms, takes a breath and holds it, lets it go, takes another. “When you were poking around in the underbrush a minute ago, I saw you put something in a bag. What was it?”
He wasn’t going to show her, but he changes his mind. He holds up the plastic bag. In it is a pink iPhone.
“It’s Allison’s.” She doesn’t sound surprised. She doesn’t say I told you so, either, for which he is inexplicably grateful.
“Maybe, maybe not.” He pockets the baggie. “We won’t know for sure until we get into it.” He gives her a narrow-eyed, calculating look. “Maybe it’s a plant.”
She looks confused. “A . . . plant? But that’s a cellphone. Plants are green and—”
“A throw-down.” He’s annoyed at her, disgusted, almost. “Something you—or your friend, this so-called ‘missing person’—planted to make this look like an abduction.”
She pulls in her breath sharply, as if he has slapped her. She closes her eyes and drops her forehead to her knees. “Earbuds,” she says, after a moment. Her voice is muffled.
“What?” He scowls at her.
She lifts her head. “Over on Harper. In the grass beside the curb, where he parked. They’re pink. They match her phone.”
“You planted the earbuds, too, huh?” He takes out his cellphone and turns and walks a dozen paces away, calling for his crime scene team to do a full search of the area. Then he returns and holds out his hand. “Can you make it back to the lot under your own steam, or do you want me to phone for EMS?”
“No. No EMS, please.” She grasps his hand and he pulls her to her feet. Watching, he sees her close her eyes briefly, as if she is dizzy, and he puts out a hand to steady her. But her color is coming back, her eyes are more focused, and she manages a fleeting, defiant smile.
“I’m fine, Detective. Really. I can manage.” She squares her shoulders. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
So it’s Detective again, not Ethan. Disturbingly, there’s something about that rebellious glance that reminds him of Carole, who would tell him she was fine even when she was down for the count. Women. Always think they can take care of themselves, when they can’t.
“Well, come on, then,” he says, and they start down the path toward the parking lot. He is perplexed and stewing and a storm of thoughts are swirling through his head. Whatever happened here and however Ruby Wilcox is connected to the crime (if there was one), he now has to go through the usual things he does to secure a crime scene (even if it isn’t one).
He’s got to get somebody from Parks to close the trail at both ends. Put the crime scene team to work at the spot where he found the cellphone. Call for a tow of Montgomery’s vehicle and get it processed. Look for the damned earbuds, which he will no doubt find right where she has told him to look. Which means he’l
l have to assign several uniforms to canvass the houses on Harper Lane and find out if anybody claims to have seen the gray van or the driver. Also update the chief. Oh, and keep the whole damned mess away from the media. If anybody gets the idea that some so-called psychic is calling the shots in a no-body case, they will have a media circus on their hands.
He shudders, imagining the headlines.
“Well, you’re not going to get any argument from me about that,” she says. “The last thing I want is for people to see my name in the paper.”
He jerks toward her. “What? What did you say?”
“Sorry,” she replies apologetically. “Most of the time, I make an effort to stay out of people’s heads. You’re thinking so loudly, I can’t help overhearing. You could turn the volume down. Or put your walls up. You did that earlier, you know, and it shut me out.”
“Walls?”
“What you do. When you need to feel closed in. When you don’t want anybody knowing what you’re thinking or how you’re feeling. You raise your walls. You block.”
“Sweet baby Jesus,” he mutters. Carole had always said the same damned thing. You don’t want anybody knowing how you’re feeling. You put up your walls. You block me out.
There’s a half-amused glint in her eye. “Who’s Carole?”
It’s as if she has just socked him, savagely, in the belly. “None of your damned business,” he growls. His jaw tightens. Making a massive effort, he shuts her out.
“I understand,” she says quietly. “I hope you know that I don’t want to hear what you’re thinking.”
At the parking lot, he turns to face her, pulling down his mouth. “Ms. Wilcox. I don’t pretend to understand what happened back there—whether it was for real or some kind of elaborate play-acting that you and Allison Montgomery cooked up together. But just so you know, I’m thinking that this whole thing has got to be a fraud.”
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